


Torture

by jaimesselfishmachines



Series: Idiot Boyfriends (head over heels and in denial) [13]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: And other unpleasantness, Interrogation, Kidnapping, M/M, Please heed the warnings y'all, Waterboarding, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:49:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25401148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimesselfishmachines/pseuds/jaimesselfishmachines
Summary: Lafayette and Laurens are captured by British forces whilst on a reconnaissance mission.The events that follow are... unpleasant.
Relationships: Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette/Hercules Mulligan (past), John Laurens/Hercules Mulligan
Series: Idiot Boyfriends (head over heels and in denial) [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1275245
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	Torture

**Author's Note:**

> {{Text in squiggly brackets are spoken French}}

“ _Tell us about the 6th Battalion.”_

It’s a routine demand out of Talky's mouth. It's not as though formal introductions had been made, but it's very simple logic that the one asking the questions be called Talky and the one currently driving his fist into Lafayette's face be called Punchy. 

Stabby must be on lunch break. Talky has no problem covering his shift. 

Laurens clenches his jaw, screams muffled by the shield of his blood-stained teeth. His fingers dance in response to the pain, doing everything in his power not to give his captors the satisfaction of hearing the evidence of his agony. 

He gasps when the blade leaves his chest, leaving a trail of torn, bloody fabric. 

“ _Tell us about the 6th Battalion.”_

Is the demand again. The same demand that has been proposed to them over and over again for the days— weeks— however long they've been in this too-bright room. This long without sleep is taking its toll on them both, inching them closer and closer to breaking point. Neither has any idea how long they’ve been here, snatched from their initial assignments and chained up, restrained in a room flooded with far too much light to achieve any form of peace. But it’s been long enough for the usually arrogant Marquis to retreat within himself, self-soothing with almost silent whispers of denial. 

It's terrifying and exhilarating. The overwhelming silence that can settle in a room previously flooded with screaming and crying is something to behold. Laurens has never seen Lafayette cry before, and if he had to guess, neither had the Marquis’ mother. 

Laurens has made it his personal mission to get them out alive, ever since the initial objective had been blown. The British don't make a habit of keeping prisoners, and there's no doubt that they're weighing the pros and cons of keeping Laurens and Lafayette alive. If it's for a prisoner exchange, John is as good as dead; an ordinary major in an ordinary unit of the Continental Armies. Gilbert du Motier, le Marquis de Lafayette is a far more valuable target. 

Which means that it's a good thing Talky, Punchy, and Stabby haven't figured out who they are yet. 

The 6th Battalion is something Laurens could only dream of knowing, which makes this a nightmare. The elite squad assembled directly under Washington… Lafayette would know the details. Which means the Marquis’ extended silence is keeping them both alive for now. 

Laurens flexes against his restraints, the only other thing available to distract him from the pain in his skull. He can't see the back of his head, but he has very little doubt that his brain might be leaking out the back of it. He won’t cry about it. He has a theory that perhaps his strength is the only thing keeping Lafayette sane; and whilst Gilbert is an utter dick, Laurens is staying stoic for him. 

And all of a sudden, they’re alone.

Lafayette is quiet, but audible now that Laurens can focus on anything other than the bleeding. The struggle of translation is enough to leave him painless, brainpower insufficient to both feel and think at the same time.

{{“Lafayette,”}} He begins. Lafayette’s head bolts upright from its place against concrete, and Laurens instantly regrets calling his name when he witnesses the fear in Laf’s eyes. The man flinches as though the name hurts him, and in another world, another time, Laurens would be able to comfort him. Hercules has spoken enough French to him — during sex, but that's hardly what he was focusing on at the time — that he can comfort Lafayette in his turmoil. {{“Are you okay? I tried to distract them.”}}

“No…” Lafayette swallows painfully, leveraging his body weight in order to sit up. Handcuffs pin his hands to the base of his spine, and his limbs are of no use, wrists dislocated in the struggle to free himself. “No… French…”

Laurens doesn’t know why he expected any different. But he’d had an inkling of hope. For the past few days— weeks— however long it’s been— every word uttered in French between the two had been met with regular force. Originally the plan had been to plead ignorance, to go without identifying symbols: no cockades, no epaulettes, no ID. But Laf's accent is too strong for a denial of the French language. So he goes in as a tourist. Still, there's no viable reason for any tourists to be near British military bases in the midst of a Revolutionary War. The British don’t like the French, it seems, any more than they favour the American _traitors_.

{{“It’s okay.”}} 

“I d-don't speak Fr-the… the language.” It's a ridiculous statement, with how his accent, his fear, permeates the room. 

{{“I won’t tell.”}} Laurens reassures. There’s a long moment of silence, and pain begins to seep into the edges of his consciousness, leaving him almost breathless. He waits patiently, waits for Lafayette to confide in him, to believe he is a safe haven. The irony is not lost on either of them. They once tried to kill each other, and now, they depend on each other for their very survival.

{{“I th-think it’s broken,”}} Lafayette murmurs, eyes scanning the room for threats; though John doesn't know how he does it, considering one eye is swollen shut, and the other is drowning in blood — a result of Punchy's earlier handiwork. Laurens knows Laf is referring to his leg, but it could just as easily cover any bone in his face. If it wasn't for their personal interactions, Laurens would have no idea who was under the mass of blood and bruising. It's a wonder the Marquis can speak. “I think… It's time to get real. If only one of us can get out alive, it should be you.”

“I'm not letting you give up. We're both getting out of this. Alive.”

“Do not make this worse for yourself. I can't walk.” Lafayette shakes his head. “If you need to, you can sacrifice me.”

“That isn't a decision I can make!”

{{“You may not have a choice.”}}

The silence is shattered when two men — Talky and Punchy — re-enter the room. The way Laf flinches doesn’t escape their notice, jangling cuffs announcing his fear.

“You.” Talky points at John and Laf relaxes. “If you won't talk, then I guess it's time for a bath.”

  
  


His lungs carry an immense pressure, as if a two hundred pound weight sits on his chest. He can feel his pulse becoming more erratic. Breathing tight and congesting as he coughs, throws up, and leaks water out of every orifice on his face, treasuring the simple ability to take in air, only to feel more bitter cold drenching him. He yanks at the restraints, twists and pulls and jerks in an effort to escape the chill in his bones. His brain is running on pure adrenaline and panic. Only the dread keeps him company. Dread of the next bucket to fall. Dread of the air being robbed from him when shards of ice dig into his skin. He gasps, shocked as the first time, water slithering across his face and burying itself in the fibres of his clothing, in his hair, in his nostrils, in his windpipe.

“Do you feel like talking now?” Talky asks him, and the plank he’s strapped to is all of a sudden upright. To be fair, with the water filling his mouth, John feels like suffocating.

He spits, coughs, gasps. 

Talky and Stabby are somewhere in the room with him. That means Punchy is with Lafayette, and the man requires very little excuse to release his anger. He dreads the moment Lafayette screams for mercy. Lafayette for all his opulence and dignity… can only take so much before he completely loses it. John doesn’t doubt Laf’s loyalty — not for a second — but the Marquis is a concept that Punchy seems to very much enjoy transforming into a mangled, broken mess. He dreads the look on Herc’s face when he’ll have to identify either of their bodies. 

It’s so dark with the cloth strapped over his face that the threat is everywhere and nowhere at once. That’s the worst part, really. The dread of waiting. The utter silence that hangs in the room. So heavy that John can finally hear his own struggles, the sobbing, the retching, the coughing, the crying. His mouth moves of its own accord, and John can only decipher half the words his brain supplies.

There’s laughter beside him. He can’t feel his lips anymore, but at least whatever he’s saying manages to be funny. He can take pride in that.

Anything to distract from the dread.

The danger resides in the dark beneath his eyes, in the dread of his ribcage, in the despair of his mind. Just when his body attempts to find refuge, relaxes in its trembling for just a second, too helpless to resist the restraints for a moment, and he lies flat; that is the moment. Stalking, ever-vigilant pain shoots from the darkness to curl alongside him, slithering under his skin to bite at bone and freezing flesh. 

Hercules has to forgive him for giving up, giving in, right? He’s tried everything, and sure, if he tells them what they want to hear, he’s as good as dead. But being dead has to be easier than not being able to breathe. He’d laugh if he heard himself, but all John can hear is cold and cold and cold and his own sprinting heartbeat. If he could form words, he’d ask to be _returned to the upright position. No, that’s tray tables, isn’t it?_ What John wouldn’t give to be in a cheap aeroplane seat, chomping down on something tasteless, on his way to visit his shitty family. 

Talking is out of the question, but the weight on his chest will never leave him.

  
  


* * *

”They’ve been compromised. There's nothing more we can do.”

“With all due respect, sir.” Greene steps closer, eyes fiery as he stares down General Washington. “It was your choice to send them in. It is your _responsibility_ to get them out.”

“I cannot risk any more men.” Washington states, “The General, and Major, will have to get themselves out of danger. We simply do not have the resources.”

* * *

“Greene will find us. Washington will find us.”

“And if I don't want that? For Washington to find me?” Lafayette posits, eyebrows furrowed. He crawls across the floor to settle at John's feet. Walking is out of the question with his foot all but separated from his calf. He can see it, congealed blood encrusted on the exposed tendon hanging from his ankle. He ignores the pain, puts on a brave face, and curls into John's side, hoping that his body heat is enough to stop John from shivering. John's brain doesn't have the resources to reassure Laf, **and** retain body heat. His lips are numb, face burning. It hurts to be this cold. Like frozen needles being plunged into his skin. 

“Washington will find us,” Laurens repeats, more forcefully. If he lets Laf in his head, they'll both die. He can't die. He's seen the look on Hercules’s face when… He can't die. “G-Greene will find us.” 

Lafayette flinches as the frigid droplets soaking John’s hair finally succumb to gravity, hitting his neck and shoulder. “Is anything broken?” 

Laurens bites into his lip, applying enough pressure to break the skin, pressing down until his teeth draw blood. “I thought of Herc and I still wanted to die.”

It feels like rubber between his teeth. But he can taste it, the blood; finally able to empathize with Laf's copper-tainted mouth. “Everything else is so fucking numb.”

John startles when he hears the voice behind him. Flinching is normal for them now. 

“Not for much longer. If you don’t know anything, as you say, then you’re of no use.” Talky says, each syllable sliced by sharp teeth. He turns to Lafayette, looming over where the Marquis lies bruised and broken. “We’ll keep you alive. I’m certain Washington will want his favourite toy back.” 

Talky yanks at John's curls, forcing the soldier to look at him. “But you, who would miss you?” There’s warm metal pressing against his jaw, forcing his head upwards. The all-too-familiar scent of gunpowder pushing its way into John’s nostrils reminds him that Talky has no qualms about killing him. He cocks the slide into place, pausing only when Lafayette pipes up. 

“Don't. I love him! Please don't hurt him.” Laf begs, much to Talky's amusement. Laurens’s eyes widen, wishing he could snatch the words from the air. 

“Is that so?” Talky chuckles. Talky turns to Stabby, tilting his head in Laf's direction. The gun vacates its space under John's chin. “At least someone loves you.”

* * *

“Anybody would think that John is your entire life!” Eliza exclaims, burying her face in her hands, “He's literally coming back tomorrow.”

“I'm just saying… He never goes this long without answering his phone.”

“Maybe there's no wifi connection in the jungles of Palmetto.” Eliza rolls her eyes, “Seriously, Herc. He's been gone all of five minutes. You've never been like this before, so… hung up on a guy. Try not to be so lovesick.”

“You can say that because you've never met him. John is actually perfect. It's not that he's _gone_ , it's that South Carolina isn't that far—”

“Literally six states away, but go off—” 

“And I'm having a bad feeling about this whole holiday. He doesn't talk to his brother. At all. There's no reason for him to go up there.”

Eliza shrugs, finishing the rest of her espresso. “Family is family, I suppose.”

* * *

  
  


Laurens turns away from the sight, sickened by the depravity. But the hand in his hair is insistent, forcing him to watch as the Marquis de Lafayette has his dignity stripped from him.

Laf makes a gurgling noise as he struggles to breathe through the bloody nose. The crimson forms a river across both nostrils, smudging along his cheeks when his face is shoved into the blood pooling on the concrete floor. His lungs are on fire, weight pressing his body into the cold stone, ribs crushed beneath the man relentlessly pounding into him. He experiences a brief reprieve, air dancing through his lungs when a tight grip on his scalp forces his face upwards, eyes blinded by the ache in his face. His cheekbones are definitely broken, giving way to mush as his head is shoved into the floor. The gash across the hairline is still oozing blood, which quickly dries, caking his face in flaky, sticky platelet. How the decorated soldier, the nobleman, had fallen so far, the tabloids would forever speculate, but Lafayette is ready to die here. 

“You ready to talk?” There is a light tone in the question, humour tap-dancing across every syllable as Punchy grits out Gilbert’s correct address, “ _Lord_ Motier?”

Laf shakes his head, though the movement is slight due to his awkward positioning. He gasps, regretting it immediately when he inhales his own blood. He coughs forcefully, chest burning from the exertion. He groans, unable to complete a coherent utterance. His weakness seems to displease the man — Stabby, Laurens notes — above him, as Laf feels himself plummeting forwards, hair free to provide cushioning from the awaiting blow. Lafayette can’t move fast enough to ease the collision. His face smacks into the pavement, splitting open his cheek and temple. He can feel the grout tear into his skin, creating tiny cuts that sting. Maybe if he begs for mercy, they'll shoot him now. With his face against wet tile, he begins to shiver, black stars drifting about in the cloudy darkness. The man above him grunts, and with two more thrusts, cums inside him. 

“First time I’ve fucked a Marquis!” Stabby guffaws, pulling out without any grace or care. “Definitely better than any whore, I’ll give you that!” 

Laf can hear the clank of the man’s belt buckle, and imagines the man fixing his clothing, presenting a pristine image to whoever he would encounter once he left this room. He hears laughter above him, a loud guffaw, filled with a genuine sentiment that Lafayette is sure he hasn’t felt in a long time, quickly followed by a powerful kick to his already battered ribs. Lafayette collapses inwards, a movement resembling fetal position, too broken to actually complete the maneuver. The man chuckles, and Laf suddenly feels a weight on his back, and warm breath on his ear. 

“Relax.”

The word isn’t enough to prepare as three fingers are thrust into his sore hole. In a futile attempt to get away from the intrusion, Lafayette shifts in discomfort, invoking further pain in his face and hips as more grout digs into his raw skin. He’s already a mess of cum, sweat, broken bones, and blood as he unleashes a wretched sob, tears streaming from his eyes. His chest is heaving, the weight on his back stifling him. 

His gaze doesn’t stray from John’s face, from the gun pressing into his chin, from the expression of pure adulation on Stabby’s face, from the detachment on Talky’s.

Laurens can’t remember a time when he would do anything in his power to keep the Marquis alive. 

Lafayette struggles, mangled hands clenching and unclenching, reaching for anything to pull on, anything to grab the attention of the man above him before he passes out. His whole body aches, but with his handcuffed wrists strapped behind his back, he can’t pull himself up. Lafayette clenches his teeth as a shiver runs through his body. He can still taste the copper of his nosebleed, mixed with the tang of his sweat and the salt of his tears. Stabby’s fingers brush against Laf’s prostate, earning an involuntary gasp.

“Don’t worry, I’m not selfish.” The voice above him reassures. “I’ll let you cum too.”

Lafayette blinks frantically, too weak to scream as the belt settles around his throat. His pulse races ahead of his thoughts, the leather tightening with a sharp yank. “Say thank you.” The command is punctuated by a twist of the man’s wrist, sending an involuntary jolt of pleasure through Lafayette.

Laf moans, a weak sound that fights its way past the obstruction, and out his throat. The sound is breathy, and even if his brain would cooperate, would give him the out he swore to use; his vocal cords are immobile, crushed between a brass buckle and brown leather. His blue, shattered fingers twitch in a last-ditch attempt to grasp at life. 

Laurens clocks the exact moment Laf’s eyes flutter closed, body slumping forwards lifelessly, limp and at the mercy of the man above him.

He’s too far gone now.

  
  


Gilbert du Motier groans when he comes to, and promptly begins to sob when the reality of his situation sets in. He wants nothing more to sink into the floor, let the rest of his body disintegrate into the concrete.

“W-why would you do that? You should have let them shoot me.”

Lafayette turns his attention to the rasp in John’s voice. Alone, he would just pretend that nothing during the past few days— weeks— has really happened. He would get out of here, wait for his broken legs, broken fingers, broken face, to heal. Then smother the hurt of his shattered sense of self, and shower long enough for him to pretend that he doesn’t want to crawl out of his own skin. Unfortunately, there are witnesses to his ordeal. The men Laurens calls… Stabby, Punchy, and Talky… 

“Which one of them was it?”

“I don’t know what you me—”

“Which one?” Laf stills.

“Stabby. The one that crushed your fingers.” Laurens comments, watching for Laf's reaction. 

“Are they dead? My fingers, I lost feeling in them a while.”

“Maybe,” The flesh of Laf's fingers is blue-black, seeping fluid. Lafayette would be lucky to keep them. John shifts his weight, bites into his bloody lip. He has his own broken bones to worry about. John averts his eyes. “I… I don't know.”

“Thank you,” Lafayette says quietly. 

“Are you okay?” 

Laf grimaces. “It is nothing that hasn't happened before.” he murmurs under his breath. 

Laurens's eyes widen, “Sorry?” 

Lafayette makes no attempt to repeat himself. 

“I'm sorry for… I think of Hercules, and…” Laf pauses to swallow, neck bruised and swollen from the pressure of tanned leather. He croaks, forces his vocal cords to produce speech. He hesitates, “You shouldn’t have… to see me like that.”

John doesn't have a chance to thank him. 

“And why is that?” it's Stabby, a voice neither of them will ever forget. “The Marquis is awfully pretty when covered in cum, don't you think?” 

“Quit teasing, and get to it.” Talky commands, “They won't give us anything and Washington doesn't want either of them. We have to go.”

John has never been more relieved. Until he spots the bucket in Stabby's hands. He kicks back, scuffles, skates, does everything he can to avoid the unholy hell of waterboarding. He freezes when his body forces him to, hands blooming purple as swelling in his wrists restricts blood flow. Still, he kicks back, only regretting it when he tips backwards, skull smashing into concrete. He knows it’s not good, blood oozing through his curls and spreading, slowly forming a pool on the floor. 

“Don't hurt yourself,” Stabby chuckles, amusing himself. Talky doesn't look too impressed. Stabby begins his task, splashing water in each corner of the room, then over Laf's prone body. It's only when the Marquis screams that John knows something is amiss. 

{{“It's gasoline!”}} 

* * *

“It's the state food of South Carolina!” Hercules defends himself, fanning at the smoke, “I'm being festive!” 

“No, you're trying to set my lawn on fire.” Eliza gestures around them, “Do you even know how to Barbecue?” 

“It can't really be that hard, right?” Hercules squints, shielding his eyes from the sun with his right forearm. 

Eliza rolls her eyes, “You're really head over heels, huh? ‘Cause I've never seen you go to these lengths for Laf…”

“Because it's hard to source escargot, okay?” Hercules smothers the flames with a sizzle, water turning the burning wood to ash. 

“Y’know they _sell_ barbecue, right?” 

“It's better this way.”

“If you say so.” Eliza turns towards her house, “I'm going inside for a tumbler or two. Try not to burn my house down.”

Hercules gives her the finger. 

Eliza smiles and blows him a kiss. 

* * *

The smoke is so thick so fast. John can't see his own hands. He can hear Laf's violent coughing, can feel his own chest start to tighten as the smoke infiltrates his lungs. He tenses in the chair, head dizzy with the knowledge of death. 

They struggle to untie themselves, fiddling with knots braced against their skin. They're both sobbing, exchanging the quickly waning supply of fresh air in the room. 

John succeeds first, using legs to leverage a free hand from the restraints. He shuffles towards the sound of Laf's groans, palming his way down Laf's body before settling on cold metal. 

“Let me die, please.” Laf begs, “I can't live with this. With… What they've done.”

“We can, _together_.” John says, tugging at the cuffs binding Laf's wrists behind him. 

“I can't walk. My fingers are broken. I'll only slow you down. Stop!” Lafayette snaps, tensing away from Laurens's aid when his shoulders are wrenched from their sockets. He chokes out his next words, wheezing while the smoke rallies his lungs into a silent rebellion. “You can't solve this. My wrists can't… If you don't go, we both die. You should go. Now! Go, that's an order!”

* * *

“I'm starting to think you have a type.”

Herc scoffs, “Laurens is nothing like Gilbert.”

Eliza drains the tumbler of brandy before continuing to count on her fingers. “They're both soldiers, both have curly hair, and both of them — from what you've told me — like fucking you.”

Hercules swings the pillow and smacks Eliza in the chest. 

“Hey!” she protests, “Where did I lie?” 

* * *

“You lied to me.” Laurens says. If he could get up and punch Greene, he would. Unfortunately, both his hands are immobilized, entrusted to medical wonders of plaster of Paris. He still doesn't know how he managed to get out, but so far everyone who should know is keeping irritatingly tight-lipped about it. 

“I had to. There's no way you would have kept it together otherwise.” General Nathanael Greene claps a hand over John's shoulder, a sad smile on his face. “Congrats, kid. You're getting a medal.”

“You made me lie to Hercules.”

“It isn't a lie if you didn't know.”

John clenches his jaw, and quickly relaxes when the action sends lancing pain through his skull. His vision is grey for a moment then evens out into colour. “How bad is it? The fallout. When can I return to active duty?” 

“You've had your skull fractured in two places, both your wrists are broken, you've torn your nails from their beds. You've got three broken ribs and a torn Achilles tendon, a dislocated shoulder, pneumonia from excess fluid in your lungs, and scarring from smoke inhalation. You've got frostbite in your facial muscles as well, but you _refused_ to let the staff sedate you.” 

That's the nice way of putting it. 

He’d kicked and screamed and cried and fought anyone who tried to come near him. The hospital staff had tried to restrain him whilst he screamed for Lafayette, but they also worried about the chance of misaligning his already set wrists in the struggle. He’d assumed the thick, padded gloves were for the frostbite, but Nathanael had made it clear that he wasn’t to remove them if he wanted to keep his fingernails. Somehow, the itchy cloth is supposed to prevent infection. John reckons it's supposed to prevent him from punching people. 

There's a doctor with a broken rib from John's _refusal_. 

“I don't feel anything.” 

“Because you've been pumped full of morphine.” Greene cards a hand through his perfectly slicked hair, leaving a wild, gel-coated path in its wake. “Son, you're finished. You'll have an Honourable Discharge, but there is no way you're returning to regular service.”

“And Lafayette? I couldn't get him out. Is he okay? Did he make it?” 

“You should read the full report. Commander Maria Reynolds is leading the Inquiry.” Greene states with a grimace, “Please try to be cooperative.”

“He's dead, isn't he?” 

Greene's face is a playground of emotions, but he says nothing when he leaves the room. 

* * *

“I ordered some **real** barbecue from the place across town, and…” Eliza glares at Hercules, “His voicemail box is probably full by now. You can stop.”

“His flight just landed.” Hercules holds his hands up in surrender. “It was a welcome home.”

* * *

Laurens doesn't see the inside of his apartment for another month. Doesn't call Hercules in that time either. Greene drives him there from the hospital, furtive glances shot in his direction the entire duration of the silent journey. 

Greene loads him into a wheelchair, carries what little belongings he has with him. His clothes are evidence. The sweater Greene bought for him almost drowns John's figure, emaciated after too long without food. The official report, which he started, unable to finish before bile and acid spewed from his stomach, says he and Laf were kept for two weeks. Talky, Punchy, and Stabby probably fed them twice in that time. Just to keep them conscious enough to answer questions. 

“You should see someone. I gave you a list of really good therapists in the area and—” Greene’s seen how John’s own fingernails draw blood from his wrists, the way he fights imaginary restraints in his fitful bouts of sleep, clawing at any hope of escape from the memories swirling round his brain. 

“I'm f-fine.” Laurens asserts.   
They both know it’s a lie. Thankfully, Greene doesn’t pull him up on it. “You should eat something. And get some rest. Do you want me to—” 

“You've done enough. Thank you.”

It's the lack of venom in John's voice that worries General Greene more than anything else. 

When the door slams shut behind him, John leans forward and rolls to his bedroom. It’s more taxing than he thought, and though it wounds his pride to be carried like a child, he wishes Nathanael was here to transfer him to the bed. He wants to melt into the covers, enveloped in the warmth. His body has other plans. Even with the heaters on in his bedroom, John can't stop shaking. He can remember Laf's last words, telling him to **_go_ **, to save himself. The scent of gasoline invading his nostrils as he claws his way out of the restraints. Laf screaming as the fire engulfed his body, smoke smothering him. 

His phone, long forgotten on the bedside table, rings him out of his thoughts. He uses the casts as leverage, spanning the bed to answer.

“Lafayette?” He asks. 

“Didn't realize you had Gil saved as _Baby_ in your phone.”

“Hercules,” John breathes a sigh of relief, but it's short-lived. 

“Are you okay? It's been, like, two months, and you just sorta dropped off the face of the earth. Are you mad at me?” 

“No, no baby, no. I've been distracted by work.”

“Oh, so we're good? I mean still… together and all that..?”

“Of course.” John huffs, lungs spasming. He gasps for air. Just speaking is absolutely exhausting. “I... love you.”

“I love you too.”

“So. Everything worked out in the end.” Eliza grins, even though Herc can't see through the phone. 

“Two months without a phone call. He's hiding something from me. He could have just as easily said he was extending his trip.” Hercules presses submit, and waits for his paper to upload.

“Maybe he didn't have his phone on him. Don't you trust him? Are you looking for problems?” 

“He answered the phone and immediately asked for Gil. And Gil isn’t answering his phone either.”

“Okay, something's up.” Eliza concedes, “but he wouldn't cheat.” 

“You said the same thing about Gil.”

The light in that room had been bad, always on, always awake. But darkness is the worst. The dread dwells in darkness and the snake slithers towards him, carrying ice in its venom, and suddenly he's choking. He doesn't even raise his hand to defend himself, just placing a preemptive grasp on his holster. Any supervisor worth their salt would have taken it off him as a precaution. 

There have been a number of sleepless nights like this. When the pain refuses to leave him, even with the shots of morphine coursing through his bloodstream. When he presses the barrel of the gun to his chin, counting the seconds as he attempts to gather enough courage to pull the trigger. Why should he be here, and the Marquis de Lafayette be a pile of ash and charred remains? The official report said the fire burnt through everything but his teeth. Did Lafayette feel every second of the inferno? 

The truth can't escape John's lips. The truth would force Hercules to see how selfish he is. How he left Laf to die.

Lafayette's screams keep him awake, wide-eyed and waiting for the next blast of cold water to suffocate him. The orders Lafayette had given him, and the sacrifice the Marquis made, cannot be in vain. 

Laurens always manages to compose himself when Hercules calls. Always manages to brush off invitations. Always manages to shield himself from public view whilst his injuries heal. 

Until the tailor drops by unannounced. 

Laurens doesn't see Herc standing in the doorway until it's too late, and in that moment, he's too exhausted to lie anymore. 

Herc's heart breaks at the sight; John is pale, coated in a thin sheen of sweat even as he trembles powerfully. Both arms are wrapped in bandages, visible under black wrist braces. His hair is cut short, messily shorn like he’d chopped it off himself with a bread knife.

“J-John,” Hercules covers his mouth, smothers the sob in his throat. 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” To be fair, he doesn’t think he _could_. The words aren't there. Not yet.

“Is this why you were gone?”

John nods, tears streaming down his face. “It's s-so cold.”

Hercules doesn't waste a second clambering alongside John, warm palms enveloping the shaking soldier. Herc's jaw drops. He'd never been able to span John like this before, fingers counting the ribs announcing themselves along John’s sides. He buries his head in John's neck, lips pressed against the join of neck and shoulder, desperately whispering, repeating, affirming. “I am so thankful for you. I love you. I love you. I'm so glad you're here, so glad you're safe. I will always love you.”

John sobs silently. He doesn’t deserve it.


End file.
